The Strongest Among You
by IThoughtMYJokesWereBad
Summary: The original Chosen one has fallen. But he isn't the only one. Year after year, Chosen Ones die at the hands of other Chosen Ones until only one remains. All knew Voldemort was sick, but this was a whole new level of wrong, even for him.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

He was dead.

The Boy Who Lived, gone. Stricken down by the same killing curse he had survived twice before.

It was surreal.

Everyone, Death Eaters, students, and Order members alike, stood motionless, watching, waiting for him to jump up from the broken Great Hall floor. To defeat the evil You-Know-Who. But he didn't move. Not even a small twitch, a poorly concealed breath. Nothing.

He was dead.

Really. Truly. Dead.

The young man's murderer, too, appeared surprised that he had actually brought down _him,_ Harry Potter, the almighty, the Chosen One. He sauntered over to the body, wand poised in front of him, ready to attack.

The wizard tilted his head to the side, snarling out "Crucio!" as he did. Light flashed from the tip of the Elder Wand, but Harry Potter's body gave no reaction to the unforgivable curse. He laid limp, arms and legs twisted in ways no person could ever twist comfortably. But comfortableness meant nothing to the boy anymore.

Lowering his wand, Voldemort knelt down, gaze never leaving Harry's face. He had finally defeated the one true obstacle in his way. All others he could dispose of with a simple wave of his wand. He inspected the hapless fool who dared challenge him, the all-powerful Dark Lord. He wanted to burn the image in his mind for all eternity. The image of Harry Potter, forever gone. He reached out a bony hand, digging his gnarled nails into the boy's face until they drew blood. He then jerked Harry's head to the side. The crack that echoed in the room was unintended, but it brought the murderer a sick sense of satisfaction and pride.

A shrill, bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. Voldemort reluctantly turned to the nuisance, momentarily wondering if that damned Bellatrix Lestrange had somehow come back from the grave to haunt what little soul he had left. But it wasn't. It was just a girl.

Flame red hair standing up everywhere and in every which way. Dirt, grime, and rubble covered her form. And her face – her face was contorted into an odd mixture of absolute agony and unadulterated rage. The girl was being restrained by Neville Longbottom, whom was holding her back by her thin arms. Voldemort would always remember that treacherous child. _Neville Longbottom_. The idiotic one who destroyed his beloved snake and horcrux, Nagini. He narrowed his eyes at the Gryffindor, not even paying half a thought to the female he was attempting to control.

Sobs broke from the redhead once her scream died down. They bounced off the walls of the Great Hall, enabling everyone to hear them as if she were right beside them all. It was like a haunting melody; one of loss, pain, and love. All of those who had been supporters of Potter felt their hearts tighten and go out to the girl who had lost so much. That was when the Dark Lord realized who she was. Ginny Weasley. Potter's love. Voldemort removed his glare from Longbottom to glance at the Weasley leaning limply in Neville's grip. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, leaving small trails where they cleaned off bits of filth. He smirked at the blubbering girl.

"You poor, poor girl," he teased, not even recognizing the small pun he made until after uttering it. "Whatever will you do without your beloved," the wizard paused, then spat, "_Harry. Potter?_" with a sneer. He watched as her face turned the color of her hair and the rage in her brown eyes escalated into full on blood lust.

She wanted to kill him.

The realization made him cackle.

His laughter fueled her ever-growing anger. To her, the man was a monster. He didn't deserve to live, especially when Harry no longer would. She thrashed against Neville's hold, waiting for the right moment to break free and attack.

Her wait wasn't long lived.

Neville, without thinking of any possible consequences, readjusted his hold on her arms, giving Ginny the chance to pull away. Tears of anger and despair flowed never-ending down her flushed and grimy cheeks. Quick as light, she raised her wand so it was level with Voldemort's chest. But, before she could even utter the first syllable of her curse, he flicked his wand, not even needing to vocalize the words he had repeated countless times before.

Ginevra Weasley fell, crumpling in a heap on the cracked and crumbled floor of the Great Hall, accompanying her dearest. Muffled cries from her family and friends were heard. They all attempted to stifle them, for fear they would bring more death upon their families by drawing attention with their cries.

"Does anyone else wish to challenge the Dark Lord?" he bellowed, baring his wand before him, showing how he wouldn't hesitate in killing another, or all of them. Voldemort scanned the room, looking at all of the heartbroken faces, and the victorious ones of his Death Eaters, once no one had spoken. "Hmm?" he asked once more, almost wanting someone else to step forward, just for the thrill of the kill. Silence rang through the room. Needless to say, no one challenged the dark wizard.

He shook his head, "Pity."

**A/N: So, what do you think? I'll explain more in the chapters to come. I hope to write the first chapter soon, but who knows? Don't kill me. I have purpose for killing them. Reviews, criticism, and yes, even flames are appreciated.**

**Thanks!**

**JOKES**


	2. Chapter 1: The Goblet of Fire

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; I own nothing. All rights go to the respectful owners.**

**A/N: Sorry for the super, super long wait. But here it is. I hope it doesn't disappoint. And, yes, I corrected the mistakes my reviewers (Lord Toewart and Bookwormlovesharrypotter) pointed out to me. Thanks for helping me better the chapter guys:) Not too, too much changed, but I feel much better about this version.**

Chapter 1: The Goblet of Fire

The Goblet of Fire had made its return to Hogwarts. To say the people of Hogwarts were surprised would be an absolute understatement, especially when speaking of those old enough to recall what occurred last time it was within the castle halls. But the Goblet sat in the back corner of the Great Hall year-round, right behind the professors, as a sick reminder of what was to take place every September first. Its ever-dancing blue flames never seemed to fit in—they always drew attention, sticking out like a sore thumb. Even in one of the previous years when a Ravenclaw had won and the Great Hall was adorned with blue and bronze.

It was probably how the Ministry preferred it though; something to constantly strike fear in the heart of the students and staff, to remind them of the power the Ministry held over them all.

First years had always babbled about what the Goblet could possibly do or mean. Those who had older siblings stayed silent, their heads bent in grief. Soon, the chatter over the mesmerizing object would die down as soon as they were told, either by the headmistress or older students, what the Goblet really signified. As the years progressed, the commotion over the Goblet depleted. Soon, it became a wide-known thing, what happened with the Goblet. Talk completely ceased after the year the Ministry thought it would be a brilliant idea to require wizarding families to watch on the television, regardless of age or ties.

It was easy to lose oneself watching the flames lick at each other and the edges of the massive Goblet. Once, a student swore they saw their life play out on the flames as they idly stared at it, but when others would gaze for hours, just waiting for a flicker of an image, nothing ever happened. They put it down to the student was imagining things. It wasn't very implausible that they would be—everyone lost themselves in daydreams of a better place, a better time than then. The world was so horrendous that they had to, to keep what little of their sanity they could manage to grasp. Many became deranged, not just those that the Goblet chose, though many of those went beyond mad.

The worst part was there was nothing anyone could do about it. At first, students, professors, parents, they all stood up and challenged the Ministry, attempting to make them see the cruelty and wrong in their ways.

They had all died.

An example had been set—no one was to fight against the Ministry. Doing so was suicide. Your word didn't matter anymore. The only thing you could do was to hope and pray it wasn't your name the Goblet spout out. And train. Train as if your life depended on it. Because it did.

Because only one of the Chosen Ones lived in the Trials.

oOoOoOo

It was hard to tell who was more anxious, the seventh years or the first years. It would be either the last or first Choosing for these students. If the seventh years could just make it past this year, they'd be home-free. If the first years could avoid being picked, then they could maybe keep their sanity for one more year. But these students weren't the only ones nervous. Second years, third years, fourth years, fifth years, and even sixth years were all terrified. They had lived through at least one Trails. They all knew the hardships, the loss, the sheer relief at not being picked, and the guilt of being glad someone else had been sentenced to their death and not them.

As the last of the first years filed into the Hall in a perfect, uniform line, the Hall instantly hushed. Headmistress McGonagall stepped forward to podium facing the whole student body. Her face looked far more worn than one should ever look. Her normally strict façade had slowly deteriorated over the years. It was hard to watch so many of her students go off to kill each other, and die at the hands of those they had once called "friends." Her eyes would forever betray her. One could see the pain in them; the loss of all hope. She sent a small glance in the direction of the current Herbology professor, pulling strength from his encouraging nod.

"Welcome, students, both new and old, to another year at Hogwarts. We will start the year off with the Sorting. As I call your name," she directed her words to the first years, "come forward to receive your assignment." She began listing off names. "Addison, Cynthia." A pause followed for the child to be sorted into Hufflepuff. "Alersion, Joshua." Another pause for the boy to be named a Slytherin. The process repeated, over and over again. It was that way every year. What once was a joyous occasion filled with cheers and hollers was now about as morbid as the one to come almost immediately after it.

"Malfoy, Scorpius," she said, a little shock colouring her blank tone. Her skin seemed to turn paler. With more children coming in from her past students in the past few years, McGonagall had been having even worse a time than before. Draco Malfoy may not have been her favourite student, but he had been one of her students nonetheless. She couldn't help but hope his son wouldn't be picked by the Goblet, just as she wished for every child she ever laid eyes on. She continued calling names—it became automatic, almost, after uttering a few more names.

After another Ravenclaw had been named, McGonagall realized she was nearing the end of her enormous list. But, she choked on the next name she was to call. Tears could be seen welling in her eyes. "Weasley, Rose," she managed after quite some clearing of her throat. A small, collective gasp echoed throughout the Hall. No one could pinpoint the sources, leaving the guards with no one to reprimand. The small redhead knew exactly what was going on. Being the daughter of the original Chosen One's best friends was not going to play out in her favour. That, at least, was common knowledge. She nodded sweetly to her new headmistress as she placed the tattered hat on the young girl's head. The hat took some time deliberating, much to both Rose and McGonagall's surprise. Both had been expecting an immediate "Gryffindor" to sound throughout the Hall. But it did not happen that way.

_Hmm, _said the Hat._ I see you inherited your mother's brains, and your father's humor, as well as both of their senses of loyalty. It seems as if just yesterday I was sorting them into Gryffindor. Your mother had been astonished at not being placed in Ravenclaw. She would have done well there, but she would never be where she is today, now would she? But I see that your wit will exceed even hers…_

"Ravenclaw," the Hat stated, making sure to keep his tone level; he had learned the hard way that shouting the houses was no longer necessary.

The girl climbed down from the stool she had been sitting on. "Thank you," she whispered to the hat and McGonagall. Slowly and deliberately, she walked to the Ravenclaw table, keeping her eyes away from the Gryffindor table where stares were following her every move. She sat beside a brown-haired girl who cringed at the close proximity. Hogwarts was going to be a living nightmare for this first year.

oOoOoOo

Dinner was wonderful. That was one of the few things that hadn't changed about Hogwarts in all its years. One of the few things left that the students and staff could take joy from.

There was chatter from the students all throughout the Hall. It was far from the excited talk that used to come with the return to Hogwarts. Students whispered lowly, creating a droning hum. They were afraid to say the wrong thing. It was no longer just the professors catching them for misbehaving or saying improper things; the walls had ears. The Ministry was always listening, always watching. Nothing was private anymore.

When McGonagall's chair scraped across the stone floor, a hush fell over the whole crowd once again. All that could be said before the Choosing was said. Goodbyes, confessions, anything had been whispered. You never knew if you were going to be allowed another year of "normal" life. Secrets were just something that could rarely be kept.

Before the Choosing, the headmistress was required to relay the purpose of the Trials to the students, though almost all knew beforehand. The headmistress was just glad for an excuse to prolong the time before the Choosing, the time before she sentenced eight students to their ultimate deaths.

She stood at the podium placed at the head of the Hall. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she tried to remember all that was to be said, and all that she wanted to add.

"It is time to let the Goblet Choose eight students—one boy and girl from each house—to compete in this year's Trials. While contending, the eight will be pitted against sixteen other young men and women from two other schools. Each year, the schools rotate. This year Hogwarts will vie against the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute."

Some students murmured at this, recalling the Triwizard Tournament from twenty-two years prior.

"Now, seeing as how this is the tenth year the Trials have been in place, the Ministry saw that this year should be…_special._" Anyone could see just how "special" McGonagall thought the Trials to be."Seven students will move on to the another round, with students from other schools. There, they will compete against fourteen other students from two other Trials until the last one remains."

The Hall was silent. The students were so shocked by this turn of events that none knew what to say. They just stared at their headmistress, wondering if she was speaking the truth and what else the Ministry could possibly have planned for this "special" year.

McGonagall said no more and lifted her wand, levitating the Goblet from its resting place to the head of the Hall, in plain sight of every single person present. As soon as the base of the Goblet touched the floor once again, the flames turned an intimidating blood red. They licked at each other, curling around the edges of the Goblet before shooting up and releasing a small wisp of parchment.

Headmistress McGonagall caught it with practiced skill. She steeled herself for which student she was about to condemn by simply reading their name. It was impossible to even guess where the names would start—if it would begin with the Hufflepuffs or the Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws or the Slytherins, males or females, first years or seventh years. The Goblet had its own sick sense of humour and liked to mix it up each year, leaving everyone on the edges of their seats throughout the whole Choosing. McGonagall's green eyes slid down to the parchment in her hands, recognizing her own handwriting, seeing as how she was the one to place the students' names into the Goblet year after year. A task that added pounds more of salt to the wound.

"Sabine Butoney." Her voice resounded off the walls of the Hall.

A tall, slender girl with raven hair rose from the Hufflepuff table. A few saw the girl having to tug her hand out of the boy's next to her. Her face seemed to fall at the lack of contact, but she kept her head held high and made her way up to McGonagall. Turning to face the crowd, she took her respective place at the headmistress's right.

McGonagall kept her face impassive as the flames grew red again. They thrashed around for a moment, building up to the moment when it would finally spout the name of the next Chosen One.

"Simon Feggeltrin." A small boy stood up from the seat across from the one Rose Weasley had taken. It was difficult to believe that the Ministry would make someone so small compete; he was hardly the height of an eight year-old, for goodness sake! And yet, he walked up to McGonagall, standing on the opposite side of her than Sabine. He looked to be trying to keep himself composed, but tears were already streaming down his cheeks.

The Goblet seemed to think it would be okay to keep them from waiting any longer. It spout out three names in record time. McGonagall almost didn't have time to utter one name before another was released.

Marissa Coy was the first to be called. She was taller than most girls her age, towering over even the lanky Sabine. Marissa seemed thrilled at a chance to be able to participate in the Trials. When her name was called, she all but ran up to head of the Hall, taking her spot next to Sabine with a wicked grin. She was someone who was going to make it to at least the final six.

Either that or be too cocky and die within the first five minutes.

Next was Felicity Graventoll, a short copper-haired girl from Gryffindor. Her golden eyes were wide with fright, trained on Sabine as she scurried to Marissa's side. Marissa looked her up and down, appearing to be sizing her up. From the look on her face, she was disappointed in her opponent. Sabine kept staring forward, refusing to meet Felicity's eyes. Tears could be seen welling in the gold eyes even from across the Hall.

The third to be called was named Xavier Wellenhold, a Hufflepuff. He was a burly young man with sandy hair that fell in his eyes no matter how much he tried to tame it. His face was blank as he strode to Simon's side. He placed a hand on the younger boy's shoulder for the slightest second, a gesture that had never been displayed before in a Choosing.

Everyone was still staring at Simon's shoulder when the next name was called.

"Scorpius Malfoy." Eyes flew to McGonagall, making sure they had heard the headmistress correctly. A Death Eater's son in the Trials? That was unheard of. The Goblet tended to think that Death Eater spawn should be preserved, not thrown into the slaughterhouse that was the Trials. But the blonde boy pushed himself up from the table, not even bothering with looking shocked.

It was almost as if he had been expecting to be Chosen…

He executed a perfect about-face as he turned to the student body from his spot by Xavier. The Goblet snapped and crackled, almost as if it were trying to pull the attention back to itself, feeling like the Malfoy boy had gotten all the attention he deserved. Another burned piece of parchment flew from the flames. McGonagall wasn't alert enough to catch this one. It drifted to a slow stop at her feet.

She didn't even notice it.

Her eyes were blank as she stared at the students with a look of terror swirling in them. A look that spoke for itself. If the Goblet was willing to send a Death Eater's child, a first year nonetheless, into the Trials, was no one safe anymore?

A cough from one of McGonagall's colleagues pulled her back to the task at hand. Muttering low to herself, she stooped down to snag the name of the next student. Standing full height once again, she adjusted her square glasses once before peering down at the slip. She almost dropped it, as if she had been burned just like the parchment had. "Victorie Weasley."

All attention then flew to the Gryffindor table where the blonde seventh year was sitting.

Victorie was a mess.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, her hands gripping the table with so much force it looked as if it might splinter. One of her fellow Gryffindors nudged her, coaxing her out of her seat, but she refused to move. "C'mon, Victorie," one goaded through gritted teeth, pushing her a little rougher.

"No," she growled, her eyes glued to the tabletop before her. Some people shrank away from the Gryffindor table then. Most had never seen the Weasley girl so wild, so animalistic. The strawberry-blonde girl had then acquired a small twitch that gave her a demented aura.

The other student tried again, shoving harder this time, but it did no good.

"_NO!_" Victorie shouted from her seat, eyes darting to the left and right now. "There's been a mistake." She was shaking now, almost convulsing. Headmistress McGonagall looked ready to interrupt when Victorie continued. "The Goblet chose two females from Gryffindor. It's a mistake. I don't have to compete." Her voice was shaking almost as badly as her body. Half of the room felt the need to reach out and console her, but the other half felt the need to run away, far, far away from this side of the usually relaxed seventh year.

A buzz fell over the Hall at Victorie's words. Apparently none of the other students had thought of this before she called attention to the "mistake." One student even shouted their agreement with Victorie, claiming she shouldn't have to fight. Guards instantly hauled the male out of the Hall, ignoring his protests and struggles. A few first years stared, wanting to look away, but their eyes were stuck to the boy, wondering what he was to endure for speaking up on the older girl's behalf. Victorie's small, first year cousin swore she would thank the boy for his brave act the next moment she saw him.

McGonagall was in too much shock to even attempt to bring the students back to order. One of her colleagues had to take the task into his own hands.

"_Silence!_" he demanded, rising from his spot at the professors' table. He pushed his way around the long table and made his way over to Victorie. "_Silence!_" he said again, his voice reverberating off the walls. A hush fell over the student body as they stared at their Herbology professor pleadingly. Victorie was on her feet now, hands clenched into fists at her side, body hunched in defeat. It was a wonder that no guards had hauled her off by now. As the professor spoke, he wrapped an arm around Victorie's shoulders in a comforting manner. "What the Goblet says is final." He looked like he was going to say more, but Victorie cut him off.

She pushed his hand from her shoulders indignantly. "You were his friend! How can you just sit by and watch this happen?" her tone was beyond accusatory, but it lost most of its intended harshness from the tears coating the question. But the words still held a callousness all their own. The headmistress would have reprimanded her student in any other situation for being so cruel, but, at the moment, she was lost in another world. But the Herbology teacher showed no reaction to the hateful words. He just stared at Victorie intensely. She choked back a sob and trudged up to the front of the room. She stood beside Felicity Graventoll. Felicity didn't look comfortable next to the hysterical girl. She even inched away from Victorie as discreetly as she could.

Though most hated to admit it, they knew Victorie wasn't going to be a fighter. She was going to be one of the first to go, unless this was all an act to lower her opponents' expectations. And the odds of that were very low.

What a twist the Goblet had thrown that year. A Death Eater's child and two females. Not to mention the complete change the Trials had undergone thanks to the Ministry.

Then, with an ominous tone of finality, McGonagall announced, "Rose Weasley."

The redhead's name caused a gasp to emanate from the Hall, quite similar to the one that had sounded earlier when McGonagall had called Rose Weasley's name for the Sorting. Everyone watched as the Chosen first year had to be shoved from her seat before she stood up. Her shock was apparent on her face; her mouth was hanging open in a small "o" and her cheeks were drained of all colour. The pit-pat of her shoes was the only sound that could be heard as she shuffled up to Victorie's side. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, taking deep breaths. When she finally reached the line of girls, Rose Weasley turned and faced the crowd of students.

**A/N: Yes, this does have some ideas taken from The Hunger Games. But guess what. I'm tweaking it to where it's original. I'm also not going to mark the story as a crossover because (1) less people read crossovers and (2) I'm not going to be using any Hunger Games characters, just Harry Potter and my own OCs. Oh, and I'm going to play with the Harry Potter characters too, since most of them are going to be second generation that we don't know much about. Thanks guys:)**


	3. Chapter 2: Predictions and Plans

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; I own nothing. All rights go to the respectful owners.**

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, again. I am always terrible at updating; I'll get all into a story then poof, all inspiration gone. Here you go though; hope it pleases. Thank you for the reviews, favourites, etc. And a big thanks to Makoto Sagara for betaing this chapter; you're brilliant, Mako! A life saver really.**

**Also, remember, I am messing with the characters. The present is very different than the one J.K. Rowling had set for this new generation, and even the older characters will be different. Just bear with me. If you have any suggestions, just leave them in a review, please:)**

Chapter 2: Predictions and Plans

Rose Weasley stared out the Hogwarts Express's windows at the castle grounds she had resided in for no more than an hour. Flickers of candlelight shone through the castle windows, and even some silhouettes could be seen passing by the glass panes. How Rose longed to be among those silhouettes, preparing for her first day of school tomorrow. She had been looking forward to attending Hogwarts, to seeing the place where her parents fell in love, where the original Chosen One walked at her age; even just learning how to be a proper witch had had her in high spirits.

But, of course, none of that was going to happen now.

Her lower lip quivered.

The trees of the Forbidden Forest quickly blocked the rolling land from her sight, darkening Rose's personal compartment. The redhead tore her blue eyes from the dark-green lushness zooming passed her and focused on the seat across from her, furiously blinking back tears. There was a hole near the top of the cushion; it was spurting yellowed fluff. Rose kept her eyes on the mark in the green upholstery, attempting to make her mind focus on all the possible ways the hole might have come into existence.

Maybe a student had used a defective spell and the hole was burned there. Maybe someone poked their wand into the seat, for reasons beyond Rose. Maybe a student's trunk had snagged on the rough material as they pulled it down from the rack overhead. Maybe she was just in denial and trying to think of anything but her imminent death.

Well, she knew the answer to that last one.

Throwing her head back on her overly-stuffed seat, Rose closed her eyes, effectively blocking the compartment from her sight. Her mind was gloriously blank for a moment, just the soothing blackness surrounding her. But the image of the Goblet of Fire's dancing flames morphing from blue to red and spitting out charred pieces of parchment swam behind her closed lids. Her eyes flashed back open; anything was better than reliving the past hour.

A soft _rap_ sounded on her door. Rose turned her head in the direction of the sliding glass door. Outside she saw a man in long black robes peering down at her. A small smile curled the edges of his lips. _A staff member_, she concluded when she saw the Hogwarts crest embroidered on the right of his cloak. He was the one who had silenced the Great Hall after Victorie's name had been announced. _Now he's here to comfort me too_, Rose thought with a huff. She had seen how well he'd done with Victorie; she really didn't feel like dealing with the man now. But he was going to find a way in, one way or another, so why fight it? Rose nodded, not even bothering to verbalize her permission for her guest.

She heard a murmur on the other side of the door and the sound of turning locks. Then, the blond-haired man slid the door open silently and crept into the compartment, seating himself across from her. The hole in the seat was hidden from Rose's view.

The man leaned forward, eyes roaming over Rose's face. "How are you?" he asked after a few moments of awkward silence.

Rose quirked an eyebrow slightly, pressing herself back in her seat. She picked at the upholstery by her right leg. The only answer she gave was a shrug of her tiny shoulders, eyes on her knees.

"Look at me." The man paused, waiting until the first-year obliged. Rose slowly peeked up at the stocky man around the same age as her father and mother. She momentarily wondered if he knew her parents. But her mind bitterly told her, _who doesn't?_ "Thank you," the man said quietly once his eyes made contact with hers again. "How are you?" he repeated, eyes boring into Rose's.

Rose sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, still picking at the seat. Maybe that's how the hole was made in the other seat… She moved her hand to wrap around her legs. "I've been better," she mumbled, staring the older man down. The first-year wasn't in the mood for the therapist act.

His long fingers brushed his blond hair out of his eyes. Rose could see the small glint in them, the one that let her know that he knew much more about her than she had originally thought. Was it possible he wasn't just a staff member sent routinely to "comfort" the Chosen Ones?

"I am to be your mentor," he said, eyes watching her closely still. "Each year, the school sends two professors to help teach all of our students how to survive." He leaned forward even more, reaching a large hand out to soothingly touch Rose's shoe—the only part of her he could reach. "Rose Weasley, I promise to help you as much as I can." There was sincerity in his eyes that Rose had only seen few people express in her lifetime, her family comprising most of the said few.

But she couldn't stop the snarky comment from escaping her chapped lips as she sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her jumper sleeve. "Isn't picking favourites wrong?" she asked, scooting down her bench to the window and resting her head on the cool glass.

The blond man sighed. His response was far from what she expected. "I suppose it is, but I owe this to you."

Rose's bushy, red hair swung about her face as she turned her head quickly around to look at the professor. "Y-you're pic-picking me? Why?" she questioned, squeezing her knees closer to her chest, tears threatening to spill again.

"Would you rather the emotional reason or the logical one?"

Red eyebrows scrunched together. No words left Rose's mouth.

The blond professor sighed. "Logically, the odds are in your favour far more than some of the other students," he said. Rose didn't miss how he didn't say "Chosen Ones"; she liked it. "To be blunt, Sabine looks tough, but as soon as Felicity is gone, she'll break. Marissa is going to go down within the first ten minutes. Simon might be able to hide, but he'll be found, eventually. Xavier has a chance, but he seems too compassionate; he might make an alliance that will cost him. Malfoy is going to be a target from the very start; the victory of killing a Death Eater's child? Everyone will be in a frenzy to get him. And…" he paused, "As much as I hate to say it, Victorie is a lost hope." He let his last sentence hang in the air for Rose to mull over.

As much as Rose hated to admit it too, she knew Victorie wasn't going to make it far. After her little show in the Great Hall, it was apparent how unstable her cousin really was. Instability could lead to insanity, which, in the Trials, would be both a hindrance and an advantage. Victorie had never been a physical fighter as a child, a trait that continued into her teenage years. It was difficult for Rose to picture Victorie fighting anyone, much less killing them. The most Rose had ever seen her do was slap a boy, but she highly doubted slaps would win Victorie her life. Rose really hoped she wouldn't have to witness her cousin cross the bridge of insanity.

And, as she thought about it, the man's observations were very insightful. Sabine and Felicity were obviously close; losing one of them would lead to detrimental consequences for the other girl. Rose had even made the exact same observation of Marissa as the Slytherin had bounded up to McGonagall's side; the girl was too cocky, she wasn't going to live. Simon looked like the younger, male version of the innocent, little Felicity; he wasn't going to live long either.

That left Xavier, Rose, and Scorpius… Rose wasn't so sure who she thought would win out of those three. They all had their strengths, but they also had their weaknesses. She wasn't so sure if she was the true Chosen One of that trio.

And one had to factor in the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students that would be Chosen too.

"Emotionally," the professor interrupted her extremely disturbing thoughts, "I _want_ you to win the most. No, I don't wish for the others to die, but if they must to guarantee your safety, then it's a sacrifice that must be made."

Blue eyes focused disbelievingly on deep, brown ones. Why would he want _her_ to win? What was she to him? Did he just have a debt to repay to her parents? Did he feel sorry for her? Maybe he was just kidding. Maybe a more deserving kid would be his true Chosen One and he was just toying with her.

"Rose Weasley, I graduated from Hogwarts nineteen years ago. I was a Gryffindor," _No_, Rose thought, "alongside the original Chosen One, and your parents."

"No," Rose whispered, tucking her face in her knees, hiding from the man before her. He really was choosing her, just as the Goblet of Fire had Chosen her.

"My doing this is not a way of paying off debt to them. My reasons are much less selfish." Rose squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the man seated across from her. "I don't know if your parents have mentioned me," he began again, his voice a little on edge, "but my name is Neville. Neville Longbottom. And Rose, my sole purpose for the duration of these Trials is to keep you alive."

oOoOoOo

Elegantly holding his wand, just as his mother and father had ingrained in the young lad, Scorpius Malfoy whispered, "_Protego_." Moving his hand in a waving motion, Scorpius was delighted to see a small wisp of silvery-blue light emit from the end of his holly wand. A small smirk graced his pale face, the only sign of his pride in being able to conjure such a spell. He silently thanked his parents for being so paranoid as to teach him a spell most adult wizards found challenging. He just needed to practice more before it would even be useful. He knew that few, if any, of the other Chosen Ones would know the Shield Charm. Especially that other first-year.

Rose Weasley.

Scorpius had known _she_ would have been Chosen before McGonagall had even finished uttering her name during the Sorting. A child of not one, but _two_ of the original Chosen One's closest friends? Not to mention her mother was a Muggle-born and her father a "blood traitor." A real goner by Scorpius' standards. The Dark Lord would want her dead more than all of the other people in Britain. Anyone with half a brain could draw that conclusion.

Almost as easily as Scorpius had drawn the conclusion of his own fate.

The Malfoy's had been loyal to the Dark Lord, yes. Through all the years they had. But their loyalty for over multiple decades held no weight when one looked at the betrayal Scorpius' father committed when he refused to turn the original Chosen One in to the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor all those years ago—not to mention the treacherous act his grandmother Narcissa had committed by lying to the Dark Lord to save the original Chosen One. No, no amount of loyalty held a candle to the extreme betrayals that now marred the Malfoy name amongst Dark wizards all around the entire globe. People Scorpius hadn't even met despised him with every fiber of their beings, going so far as to even wish for him to have a slow and torturous death.

_Yeah, get in line_, he thought.

Running a hand through his shaggy, blond hair, Scorpius waved his wand, practicing the incantation again. If he ever needed a protection spell, it was now. For even he knew that the moment he set foot inside that wretched arena, he would be everyone's target.

For what better prize was there than taking all your pent up anger out on a Death Eater's son, especially if said Death Eater was none other than the infamous Draco Malfoy?

oOoOoOo

"We need a game plan," Neville murmured to the small redhead. The Ravenclaw nodded, twirling a small strand of her bushy hair around her index finger. A smile blossomed on the professor's face as he was reminded of Rose's mother when she was younger.

Rose looked at the ceiling as she pondered aloud. "Malfoy doesn't need any attention from me; everyone else will be focused on him. So, that's one less I need to worry about. I don't think I could hurt Felicity or Sabine. Maybe I…no, never mind." Neville saw the girl's lower lip quiver a little before she harshly bit down on it.

The Herbology professor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together under his chin. "No, go on. No idea should be overlooked," he goaded.

She took a deep, shuddering breath in. "Well…what if _I_ took out Marissa?" Neville's blond eyebrows shot up, threatening to disappear into his hairline. Rose immediately backtracked. "Never mind. It was a rubbish idea. I just thought-"

The professor held a hand up to stop her. "No, no, I like it." A clever smile graced his pale-pink lips. "You are one of the last she would expect; this could be good." Neville tapped a finger on his chin, standing up to pace the length of the small compartment. He could feel blue eyes following him as he made the short journey back and forth. "Do you have any qualms against utilizing the Killing Curse?" he asked, spinning on his heel to continue his pacing.

There was silence, then, "If I must, I will." Neville spared a glance at the little redhead, seeing a determined look on her face. He knew that look. It was the same look the Golden Trio had all worn on their faces whenever they were about to lose Gryffindor house a couple hundred points.

He nodded approvingly. "Now, you need an alliance."

"With whom?" Rose asked, already shaking her head no. The blond professor could see she was starting to think along the same wavelength as him. He nodded. "No, Dad will kill you," she said, her tone trying to be warning but just coming out shaky.

Neville started. "Why would he?" he asked, sitting down again.

Rose rolled her eyes exasperatedly. With a sigh she said, "Really?" When Neville didn't break her pause, she sighed again. "Dad is a little…overprotective. He nearly had a heart attack when I talked to our neighbor down the street. And that was only to get my football back! It wasn't like I was trying to snog the boy!" A red flush was spreading across Rose's freckled cheeks.

The blond man couldn't help it; he laughed. A deep chuckle rose from his chest and past his lips. It startled the little first-year, but she soon became indignant. Crossing her arms, she huffed at the professor before her. Neville continued laughing at the thought of a protective Ron Weasley.

"Don't be angry," he said to Rose after he was quite calmer. "It's just, I can picture Ron so perfectly. He was incredibly jealous when Hermione even just _talked_ to other lads. It only makes sense he would go mad when you talked to one."

A red eyebrow rose. "You're kidding, right?"

It was Neville's turn to be shocked. "Kidding? No," he chuckled. "Your father has to be the most jealous man in history. Hell, he was jealous of Harry when he-" Neville stopped, choking on the end of his sentence. He hadn't said Harry's name since the wizard's death in the Great Hall all those years ago. His vision swam and he could no longer see Rose Weasley. Rather, he saw a flash of vibrant green fighting with a streak of brilliant red, two wizards at each end. Ashes and rubble scattered the ground, swirling up around the clashing spells. Neville stood, horrorstruck, knowing all too well what was to happen next.

But he didn't see it.

A small hand was on his knee, shaking it from side to side. "Professor? Professor!" a little voice squeaked from a distance. Neville squeezed his eyes shut again, forcing a deep breath in and out of his lungs. Swallowing the lump in his throat, the professor opened his eyes to a very distraught Weasley. "Professor?" she asked tentatively. As if just only remembering, Rose glanced down at her hand on Neville's knee and quickly pulled it away.

The blond man rubbed a hand over his face, scratching the light stubble that was caressing his jaw. "I'm fine," he muttered behind his hand, wondering just what the Ravenclaw had seen. How had he reacted to saying Harry's name, on the outside that is? "Rose, I'm sor-"

The Weasley first-year glared up at her mentor. "Don't you dare apologize." Neville's brown eyes widened at the young girl's words. She had been so timid and reserved since he had entered her compartment; this rough behavior was unlike what he was slowly becoming used to. It was frightening how Rose could go from acting like her cool, calm, and collected mother to her impulsive and stubborn father. "Don't," Rose repeated. "He was your friend; you deserve a moment of mourning."

Neville was silent. What was he supposed to say to that? Better yet, how could an eleven-year-old have any grasp of what he was going through? The answer came almost immediately. "That happens a lot at home, doesn't it?"

She needed no clarification of just what "that" was. Rose's eyes fell to the dirty carpet of her compartment. Her mumbled "yeah" barely reached the young professor's ears, but he heard it all right.

"Back to alliances," he said, switching into a different topic, though, not a much safer one. Rose's crystal blue eyes stayed on the floor, but Neville could tell he had her attention by the way her ear turned slightly toward him. "You need to pair with someone who will be of a great advantage to you."

Rose winced and a sniffle could be heard in the compartment. "I don't want to use someone just to stay alive."

A sigh ghosted past Neville's lips. "You must."

Tucking her legs up under her, Rose turned her gaze out the window again. The Forbidden Forest was long gone, replaced by precarious mountains cutting into the deep navy sky. Stars twinkled above, going in and out of sight behind the light scattering of clouds floating above the mountain tops. "It's wrong," Rose whispered.

"So is the concept of sending children off to fight to the death. Sometimes, we must do things that even we condemn for the sake of our lives." Neville's brown eyes watched the girl curled into a small ball on the opposite end of the compartment from him. She looked so much like her mother did in her first year. Beyond the bushy hair and intelligence that radiated from her being, Neville could see she had the heart of someone much older than her. The young Ravenclaw appeared to stick strongly to what she believed in, no matter the cost; just like Hermione. "Is that really why you don't want to form an alliance?" Rose nodded, though hesitantly. "Is that all?" the professor urged.

"I don't want to get close to them just to lose them."

Her words dug a knife in Neville's heart. Of course she would feel this way. She had to live her whole life watching her family mourn over one of their closest friends, someone they thought of as family. Of course she would have her reservations when it came to becoming close to anyone. For all the child knew, the closer you grew to someone, the more likely they were to disappear.

"Rose," Neville scooted down his bench until he was right across from the eleven-year-old. "Rose, I-" he started, but the girl stopped him. She closed her eyes tight, water finally leaking over and cascading down her pale cheeks. She sniffled a little before curling even more in on herself.

"I don't want to lose them like you lost Harry."


	4. Chapter 3: Dementors

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. All rights go to their respectful owners.**

**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, favourites, alerts, all of it! You all are great. This chapter took **_**so **_**much research and creativity on my part; I hope you all appreciate and enjoy it. Once again, Mako saves the day with her editing. 3**

Chapter 3: Dementors

A pale hand ran over an equally pale face, attempting to rub the sleep away. Scorpius Malfoy hadn't actually been able to doze. The first-year boy had sneered at the thought of rest as he swished and flicked his wand this way and that, producing a wide array of colours and wisps of spells. Preparation. That was all he was to do: prepare. Without preparation, one couldn't hope to survive even the smallest of life's tribulations. And, despite the fact that was indeed a Malfoy—or rather _because_ of the fact that he was a Malfoy—Scorpius was in need of all the preparation his poor soul could manage.

Raising his wand arm once more, the lanky boy moved his hand in a jabbing motion, but before he could utter the incantation, the train lurched to a stop. Scorpius flew forward, landing with a _thud _on the compartment's hard floor. The grimace that graced the young boy's face was most unattractive. He rubbed his now-sore hip as he slowly stood once again, using the seat across from him as leverage. After checking over his wand and taking care that there wasn't even the faintest of scratches on the holly wood, Scorpius walked to his compartment door. Grey eyes gazed through the crystalline glass, peering down the length of the hall.

No one was in sight.

With a huff, the blond strolled to his bench again, sitting himself down on the over-stuffed cushions. Scorpius twirled his wand around his fingers, his eyes locked on the door for any movement. A spark flew from the end of the holly instrument, reflecting Scorpius's agitated mood. Combine the extreme lack of sleep with his irritation at being thrown to the ground of the dirty compartment to the lousy "comfort" session he had had with one of the professors Hogwarts had forced to "mentor" the Chosen students, and one could easily see that the youngest Malfoy had a right to be agitated. Maybe even pissed. Not that he would show it. He may not be as big of a stickler as his grandparents, but that did not mean dignity was beyond him.

A dark shadow ghosted passed the compartment's sliding door. Scorpius felt his eyes widen at the figure shrouded in a combination of dim lighting and some ripped cloak. He really hoped it wasn't what he thought it was.

The boy turned his eyes away from the door, preferring to glance out the window, but the view didn't offer much. All Scorpius could see was blackness, sheer blackness. For all he could tell, there was nothing whatsoever outside his train window. He pressed his face against the pane, ignoring the shiver that wracked his body when the cool glass met his skin.

Grey eyes were so intently searching the blackness for any shape or movement that, when a knock sounded on the compartment door, Scorpius let out a highly unbecoming yelp. Jumping a few centimetres in the air, the blond boy spun around, eyes locking on the professor standing in his doorway. The woman was the same from earlier. She absentmindedly flipped her waist-long, dirty blonde hair over her shoulder. Scorpius's eyes met her identical ones for a moment. He was surprised to see such enormous apprehension in them; the woman had appeared to him as the most carefree, oblivious witch in all of Britain. Apparently not.

"We have arrived. Gather your belongings and meet us at the front of the train," she said, her eyes shifting every which way, sending small tremors up and down Scorpius' spine. That look reminded him so much of his grandfather.

Scorpius didn't bother with a nod as the woman disappeared from his sight, leaving his door wide open. The thought of running immediately flashed in his mind. A laugh almost escaped Scorpius. As if he would ever make it far. His death would only be earlier if he ran.

_Gather your belongings_, he thought with a snort. They hadn't even allowed him to touch his trunk much less take something with him. All he had were his robes, wand, and the ring his father had insisted he wear from the age of five. Begrudgingly, the first-year heaved himself from his perch and began down the narrow hallway.

Two students were ahead of him, Felicity and Sabine, he thought were their names. The girls walked separately, though it seemed Felicity was trying to match Sabine's pace. The black-haired girl refused to acknowledge the younger, copper-haired Gryffindor. Striding with purpose, Sabine held her head high and didn't so much as glance back at the clumsy girl trailing behind her.

_So it's already begun_, Scorpius thought. All ties cut. No friends. No one could afford friends in the arena. Sure, they came in handy in the beginning, but then they got attached, and it came down to two and they have no clue what to do. Being forced to kill other children was one thing. Being forced to kill a friend was a whole other experience.

When he finally reached the front of the train, Scorpius saw everyone was gathered already. Every student looked anxious, though his house partner tried to play it off, sneering at anyone looking her way. Scorpius had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he let them wander for the one other first-year present. It didn't take long to spot her, even with the taller children blocking most of his view; her mane of red hair was hard to miss.

Rose Weasley was standing tall in the corner adjacent to the Hogwarts Express's exit. But, despite her air of confidence, Scorpius could see her frame shaking, her eyes blinking furiously, her tiny fists clenched so tight her knuckles were white as snow. Her blue eyes were locked on the small window on the train door. Scorpius doubted she saw anything—it was impossible out there. Maybe his earlier assumptions about her were wrong. Maybe she wasn't going to be a fighter. Maybe she was no better than her sniveling cousin.

"Students, we are using a Portkey to arrive at our destination. Follow me." Scorpius moved his gaze to the professor that spoke. Like the woman who had visited him twice in the past few hours, this man had a mess of blond hair. Scorpius idly wondered how the professors were selected each year as he followed the herd of students out the door and into the night.

Blackness.

All he could see was blackness. And it was cold, severely cold, even for September. The young boy rubbed his hands together, wishing he would have packed his mitts in his robe's pockets instead of his trunk. A small blue light appeared ahead of him, seemingly floating midair. But, upon closer inspection, Scorpius saw it was nothing but the tip of a professor's wand. He was tempted to light his own as he tripped over, yet again, another tree root, hidden away in the darkness, but thought better of it. Mere seconds later, the group halted and huddled around a stone resembling a grave marker. Inscribed on the shining, grey stone was the symbol of The Deathly Hallows—a triangle, a circle, and a line all morphed into one shape. A shudder ran down Scorpius's back.

"Everyone touch the Portkey and do not let go," the male professor directed, practicing his own words. All of the students gathered around. Scorpius was only able to extend two fingers to touch the stone. Unlike Marissa Coy, he was _not_ going to sink down to the level of shoving other people.

There was a pulling in Scorpius's navel and the world suddenly spun around him. He swore he heard a girl squeal; the first-year boy rolled his eyes. Seconds later, his feet were planted firmly on the ground. Sparing a small glance at the others, he saw that other than the professors and Xavier Wellenhold, he was the only one standing. The others had fallen to the rough ground in disarray; he had to look away from the sight.

But he wished he hadn't.

What Scorpius saw succeeded in making the stoic boy cringe. A massive, black building was erected before him, reaching far into the dark clouds circling above, so far that Scorpius couldn't even see if the building eventually ended or merely extended for eternity. Grey eyes fell upon the black figures floating around the structure at all heights, some even fifty metres above the rocky ground. Intimidating waves smashed and crashed against the rocky shore surrounding the massive building.

Swallowing the thick lump that had wriggled into his throat, Scorpius focused his thoughts on the few things in his life that had been worth remembering. The child thought of the rare occasions sunlight would cascade over his family's home, breaking through the seemingly impenetrable wall of clouds always cast over Great Britain. He thought of when he had received his wand—years before many young witches and wizards—and the warmth that had instantly spread throughout his whole being, making him feel light as a feather. The blond thought of the moment he had conjured his first spell and the looks of sheer pride and love on his mother's and father's faces. Scorpius thought of everything wonderful because he knew exactly where he was.

Azkaban Prison.

oOoOoOo

Sitting up from her seat on the rocky ground, the redheaded first-year let out an audible gasp. Towering over her tiny being had to be the largest, most intimidating building her young eyes had ever laid upon. Her blue eyes traveled up the sides of the black building until it disappeared. Was this where they were staying? Or was this where they were to die?

Rose was still staring at the building when a tanned hand appeared before her face. Her eyes followed the arm up to the person's face, astonished to see the sixth-year, Xavier Wellenhold. The young man's sandy hair fell in his eyes as he leaned down. Reluctantly, Rose took his hand, thanking him quietly for his help. He only nodded, flashing a smile. As if in silent agreement, the two walked together towards the rest of the standing group. Rose spotted Scorpius Malfoy's pale face in the eerie moonlight that fell over the island. The boy had his eyes trained to the skies, sweeping around the black figures ghosting over the grounds. Red eyebrows scrunched together as Rose peered at the creatures, attempting to make them out. She knew she had read of them before…

"Dementors," said a deep voice next to her. Rose jumped slightly, looking up to Xavier's brown eyes. They were trained on her face in a calculating sort of way, like he was anticipating her reaction. Heaving a great breath, Rose nodded, turning her gaze back to the massive building before their group.

Someone cleared their throat and all eyes found the culprit. "Welcome to Azkaban Prison," stated the man. He was a tall man, with a pock-marked face. "I'm Augustus Rookwood, Vice Minister to The Dark Lord. You will train here for one week before entering the Trials, _Chosen Ones_." He spat the last two words with more venom than Rose's parents used when speaking of the _great_ Dark Lord. "The others have already arrived. You will be shown to your _rooms_," the way he said the word made Rose cringe, "for the time being." With that, he snapped his fingers and eight of the hovering Dementors swooped in, enclosing the group and herding them through the doors.

The temperature dropped drastically as the hooded figures surrounded the group. The redhead shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. She saw Simon and Victorie mirror her actions. Xavier kept his post beside her, matching his usually long stride with her miniscule one. Suspicious as to why he was being so kind to her, she casually stepped a little away from him as they ventured down the corridor. _Professor Longbottom will be happy_, she thought with a small sigh. She still couldn't believe he wanted her to pair up with the sixth-year boy.

It wasn't long before they reached the corridor that held their _rooms._ Rose was still skeptical of what the word _room _really entailed in this prison. The ragtag group came to a halt as they rounded a corner. The blond professor at the head of the group turned to face them all. "You will be lead to your rooms by one of the _guards_," Professor Longbottom said, throwing a dirty glance in the Dementors' directions. "Follow them and wait. Your stylists will be seeing you shortly." And with that, he offered a sympathetic look to Rose before extending his arm for the female professor to take. The duo quickly disappeared down the corridor, leaving the children with the floating demons.

A skeletal hand dropped firmly on Rose's shoulder, sending flashes of cold through her body, icing her blood over. The image of her falling from the top of the bunk bed she shared with Hugo when she was only six blinded her vision from the present. She gasped at the sharp pain she felt reemerge in her left side and ankle as the memory flooded back to her. It was the worst injury she had had to date. _That won't be for long_, Rose thought as she imagined what was ahead of her in the Trials.

Raspy breathing in her ear, Rose allowed the hand to guide her left and into a room. It closely resembled an unfinished basement with the concrete walls and floor. There was even a drain in the center of the room. The tiny first-year didn't even want to imagine the reasoning behind having such a thing in her _room_. After taking a few steps in, the weight left her shoulder and the cold sensation left her body, leaving it not quite warm but with a perpetual air of chill she was beginning to associate with Azkaban Prison. The redhead turned—not putting it past the Dementor to harm her with her back turned—and saw the creature holding its grizzled hand out to her, as if expecting her to shake it.

The redhead stepped back, eyes locked on the bony appendage extended towards her. Raspy breathing grew louder as the Dementor ghosted closer. When Rose didn't move, a feeling as cold as ice blanketed the room, causing the child to shiver again. The Dementor didn't give up. Ominously gliding closer still, the creature pointed one skeletal finger to the right pocket of Rose's robes. Reaching her hand in the pocket, Rose's fingers clasped around her wand and her eyes grew wide as she understood.

"My-my wand?" she asked, wondering if the hovering being even understood English. But apparently it did, for it nodded its rag-covered head, seeming almost eager, like a child awaiting a birthday gift.

Reluctantly, Rose drew her walnut wand and held it before her. Bony fingers snatched the object greedily and the specter-like creature disappeared out the way the pair had come. All Rose was left to see was a solid, black door.

_A cell,_ she thought. The words rang with finality as she heard the multitude of locks _click _into place. Wards being cast over the door, making the room vibrate with the intensity of the magic.

The only light she was awarded either came from the miniscule window on her door—placed too high for her to even hope to see out of—or the slightly larger one peering out onto the prison grounds. Every few moments, a black shadow would glide past her outside window, causing Rose to shiver and more bad memories to surface in the petite girl's mind. As she sat in the middle of the empty room, Rose drew her knees to her chest, feeling her body start to shake. If she was terrified of this place, how was she going to make it in the Arena?

oOoOoOo

Hours later, there was a buzz in the air that alerted the dozing Malfoy of the removal of wards on his cell. The young lad pushed himself from the wall he had been leaning on and dusted off his robes. His left pocket felt very empty as he moved with the weight of his beloved wand missing. Scorpius almost felt naked. He shook his blond head of such ludicrous thoughts just as the black door opened.

A tall female stood with Marissa Coy at her side, a Dementor breathing down both of their necks. Scorpius discreetly did a double take. The woman before him could have been Sabine Butoney's sister. Long, black hair flowed down her back. Her eyes were the same light brown. She almost reached Marissa's height, which succeeded in making Scorpius feeling extremely miniature in comparison. The only difference was the woman's skin was a creamy ivory while Sabine's was a rich chocolate shade.

"You are to come with me," the woman stated tensely, offering no further explanation. She hung her head, refusing eye contact with the first-year. Scorpius nodded regally and followed one pace behind the woman, Marissa Coy to his right, the Dementor coasting behind them. The motley crew maneuvered the corridors of the prison in such a way that Scorpius was lost as to how to return to his cell, even after all his years of learning Malfoy Manor.

Soon, they reached what had to be the correct room, seeing as the woman turned in there, glancing over her shoulder to see if the others followed. The air was tense in the small room until the door closed, blocking the Dementor from sight. A buzz filled the air and the sound of locks clicking was all that could be heard. The black-haired woman appeared to wait for the Dementor to retreat, leaving the room in an awkward silence.

Moments later, the woman straightened up and took on a whole other persona. She now stood straight, with such dignity and purpose that even Scorpius's grandmother would have been proud of. The tenseness had left her body and her eyes now met Scorpius's grey sharply and intensely. "My name is Hestia Jones. I will be your stylist while you are locked in this hellhole," she grimaced as she spoke, turning to a small table placed to her right.

"Stylist?" the female Slytherin questioned, disdain in her voice. Scorpius refrained from snorting.

Hestia looked back, a look etched into her features that clearly said, "You're kidding me." Placing a hand on her hip, she rolled her eyes. Scorpius knew he was going to enjoy his limited time with this woman. "Where have you been the past ten years? Under a rock?" she asked before turning back to what Scorpius saw were her supplies.

Marissa turned red, her eyes squinting in her anger. Scorpius hid a smile behind his hand.

Flipping her long hair over her shoulder, Hestia continued as if nothing were wrong. "I am supposed to prepare you for the opening ceremony today." She glanced back at the Slytherins, scrutinizing them before returning to her meddling with the objects on her table. "Each house is supposed to have a costume to represent it. There are always the classic green and silver sparklers from your hair or Voldemort depictions, but I'd rather not be so tacky." _Thank Merlin_, thought Scorpius with an internal sigh of relief.

"This year, I want you to make an impression," the stylist said, fully facing them again. "This year, we are going to _put_ the image of you winning into their minds…with snakes." Scorpius swallowed thickly. He didn't think this could end well.

oOoOoOo

"Flair. It helps anyone win. How do you think the Irish won the four-hundred twenty-second Quidditch World Cup? They demanded everyone's attention and you'll do the same in order to…well, I'm not supposed to tell you that," the middle-aged man said.

Rose Weasley stood quietly in the cool room, listening to the man prattle on in his Scottish accent. She found it endearing, in a way, how he talked to her and house partner, Simon. He didn't demean them or give them the looks of pure pity she had been dreading to see. No, he talked as if he was a Hogwarts student himself—maybe he had been. Rose didn't know. But she knew wherever this Oliver Wood had gone to school, he learned something.

Gazing adoringly down at her costume, Rose couldn't believe it. She looked ethereal, beautiful. She was dressed in a flowing gown that cascaded down her frame and trailed a few inches behind her small body. The gown's colour morphed from silver to the lightest of blues to white with the slightest movement from the girl. But that was only the beginning. Oliver had enchanted a slow swirling mist of a blue-silver hue to twist around both Ravenclaws' bodies, shifting between different shapes and images as it ghosted over their frames. Rose's eyes caught sight of a silvery dove flying around her midsection, curling up to her left elbow before melting into the rest of the mist. The dove was the only recurring image conjured by the shimmering fog; Rose was becoming quite fond of the petite animal.

Rose turned to the vanity mirror next to her, gazing at the stranger that stared back. Her skin was no longer the typical pale of the common British lad or lass. No, it glowed, shining the same silvery colour of her dress and the mist. All imperfections had vanished. The blue of her eyes popped. Oliver had even used a potion to temporarily dye her hair a silver-white shade, doing the same to Simon. Mist wound in and out of her curls. Her hair floated behind her as if she were in space with no gravity left to weigh her hair down. In fact, Rose's whole body felt light as the swirls curving around her. She found that she no longer walked; she glided.

It was invigorating.

"Now, I want to you two to smile. Show your teeth."

The eleven-year-old stared at her stylist as if he had grown another head. She caught a glimpse of Simon mirroring her from Oliver's opposite side. _Smile? He wants us to smile? How can he expect such a thing? Has such a thing ever happened before?_ Rose's large mind worked overtime in attempt to grasp the concept.

Oliver rolled his dark brown eyes and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "I don't know where you two learned to smile, but you must have had pretty poor professors." The brunet man chuckled lightly but the sound soon died as neither Ravenclaw budged. With a sigh, Oliver spoke again, much more resolute this time. "You'll smile and you'll like it. You know why?" He didn't pause for either to answer. "Because that will stun the crowd; they won't know what to do. You will be remembered. You two will serve as lights in these times of sheer darkness. Do you know what you two are representing by just standing here?"

The first-year saw her house partner shake his head in response to Oliver's question. Rose leaned back on her heels, crossing her own arms over her chest, still careful not to rumple her magnificent outfit.

"Patronuses. Do you know what those are?" The way the middle-aged man said it didn't sound demeaning, as it would if it were coming from any other person's mouth. A small smile played at his lips.

Rose reciprocated the tiny expression. This was something she could do. Academic questions. "A Patronus is a partially-tangible, positive energy source that is a result of the Patronus Charm. The charm is typically used for defense against dark creatures." Smiling a little wider, the girl pushed her shoulders back and let her arms drop to her sides, standing tall with pride of her knowledge.

Oliver's smile grew. "That's the smile I want to see," he commented, nodding at Rose. "And yes, you were spot on. Patronuses battle dark creatures. You two will battle the darkness we have been forced into. You will bring happiness to places that are in despair. You will _prevail_." Rose could tell he had once been a leader of some sort; he spoke with such an air of authority that Rose was compelled to hang on to every word he uttered.

"Just smile," he said in conclusion, this time, his voice far lighter and conversational. But there was still the underlying order ever present in Oliver's words.

The young girl found herself nodding fervently, Simon mirroring her actions once again.

Oliver's grin was going to bust his face. "You're ready."

Not a moment later, there was a buzzing in the air and the door confining them in the room opened. A Dementor ghosted above the ground, waving the two Ravenclaws out into the corridor with a menacing looking hand. Rose reluctantly agreed, turning for one more look at Oliver. He gave her a thumbs-up, smiling brightly just before the door was slammed in his face, blocking him from her sight.

That was when Rose started to panic.


End file.
